


WIP Amnesty: A Bee in Your Punnet

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Farmer's Markets, Greenmarkets, M/M, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIP AMNESTY: Domestic fluff, Harry/George. They have a kitten named Gingerbread and go to a Farmer's Market. Louis is the beautiful strawberry salesman. This is literally just fluff; we never got to the story-part.</p>
<p>Also it changes verb-tenses after like a paragraph because we got annoyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WIP Amnesty: A Bee in Your Punnet

Harry woke up to the soft kneading of their kitten's paws on his leg and warm sunshine peeking its way around the curtains to fall across his face, and he smiled. Harry always liked Thursdays.

"Shut the sun off," groaned George from next to him, ensconced in covers. The only visible part of George was his toes, as he'd yanked his blankets up so far over his head that they had come untucked from the foot of the bed. "I don't have coffee yet. Turn it off."

Harry giggled and lifted Gingerbread from where he was rappelling down Harry's thigh; after kissing the kitten's tiny nose, he set the fuzzball down over approximately George's bum, and was satisfied that he was correct when tiny kitten claws dug through their thin coverlet and George let out a squeak.

"What is it with cats? I'm shit with cats." George's voice was muffled but audible, and then one eye peeked out from his blanket fortress. "They all hate me. Oreo hated me the whole time I lived with Josh. That cat spent more time dangling from my arm than it did on the ground."

Harry leaned to kiss George's eyebrow. "Gingerbread loves you. And Oreo was Josh's cat, so basically, bound to be a bit weird and clingy, isn't he?"

"Gingerbread hates me," grumped George. "And so d'you. What time is it? Too early. I want to sleep more."

This time, it was Harry who dug his claws into George's side, coaxing him awake with an insistent tickle. "But it's nearly seven, and the second Thursday in June, and you promised."

There was a moment of silence as George processed that, and then his eyebrows furrowed. "I did promise, didn't I?" he muttered, resigned. "Alright. Get me a coffee, though, I'm not going anywhere without a coffee."

"We can get coffee there!" Harry practically buzzed. He picked up Gingerbread in one hand and kissed him between the ears before gently tossing him to the floor to scamper away in search of tiny kitten adventure.

 

"Will they have coffee, though?" teases George, slowly levering himself to sit up on the bed. "Or will they only have weird teas made out of fruit and oatmeal?"

"They have everything," Harry promises. It's George's nose he kisses now, and it crunkles up with George's giggle as Harry's breath tickles him.

"I'm not having coffee with oatmeal in." George sighs and leans his head onto Harry's shoulder to breathe in the smell of him all morning-y and clean. "It had better be real coffee. Made with beans. No oats."

"Cynical little bumblebee," Harry says fondly, and he gives George another tickle for good measure lest he fall asleep on Harry's shoulder, as he so often does. "It will be real coffee. And real fruit! And real puppies running about, probably! Basically, it's the most 'us' place in the world." He pushes the covers down to their ankles. "Now up, up, basically, up."

" _Basically_ nothing." George gives Harry an imperious look. "I'm brushing my teeth first. And I need to wear clothes, don't I? Can't go to the market in my jimjams."

Harry beams. "I like when you say 'jimjams.'"

"That's because you're a freak." George laughs and hooks his arms in a hug around Harry's neck. "Can you pick me out something while I clean my teeth? Nothing ridiculous, though. I don't want those weird zebra trousers."

"When have I ever put you in zebra trousers?" Harry asks. "Do we even own any? I feel like we own, you know, jeans. Maybe a suit."

"No, I've got zebra trousers that Jaymi got me for a joke and I only wore them once and that was as a joke. You can have them if you'd like." George shuffles off the bed and groans when the bottoms of his feet hit the cold wood of the floor.

Harry looks contemplative. Gingerbread looks territorial, and dive-bombs George's feet, scratching and meowing like the square of floor he's chosen to stand on is really a trove of treasure.

"Why do you hate me?" cries George, tucking his feet back up onto the bed to escape the onslaught. "What have I ever done to you? _I feed you sometimes_!"

Harry wraps George up in protective arms and pulls him to safety across the mattress. "He loves you. He just wants to keep your feet."

"Yeah, as trophies in his evil little kitten lair." George continues to grumble even as he plods off toward the bathroom. "I'm going to give that kitten away."

"Don't you dare!" Harry scoops Gingerbread up and peppers kisses all over his tiny malevolent face. "Keep working on him," he murmurs to the kitten. "We'll bring him over to our side yet."

"Will not!" George shouts. The sound of running water comes from the bathroom. "That cat is my mortal enemy!"

Harry lets Gingerbread balance on top of his head and plods to the kitchen to make sure his feed bowl and water are full. "You're not," he assures the fuzzy little dragon. "You'll see, one of these days he'll be sneaking you around in his shirt pockets."

Gingerbread meows happily, little paws kneading against Harry's hair. 

"Down you get," he murmurs when he's finished, but it's superfluous: a choir of birds has landed on the balcony just outside their sliding kitchen door, and Gingerbread is off like a shot to show them who owns this property.

Never mind that half the birds are larger than he is.

"Alright, what're we getting?" George swipes a wrist over his mouth as he steps into the kitchen. "Coffee. Obviously."

"We're getting whatever looks nice and is in season," Harry says. He catches the t-shirt George throws him underhand although the toss goes way to the left. "Have you really never bought actual fruit before?"

"Not from like, a market!" George fixes the front of his hair and frowns at Harry. "From the grocery, or like. I had an orange tree once."

"How in the world did you have an orange tree?" Harry asks. "Like a real one or like a LEGO one?"

"No, like an actual one, thanks." George makes a face at him. "We had one in our garden, and it only grew about four oranges a year."

"That's amazing," Harry says appreciatively. "Well, you're still missing out. We're going and it's June and it's lovely and we're going to get strawberries and rhubarb and beets and all manner of red things."

"I like strawberries." George perks up. "Can we get loads? And raspberries. Can we become fruitarians?"

"Yes." Harry awards George a squeaky kiss on the forehead. "That's the spirit. Now come along before all the good ones are gone."

"Alright, alright!" George tugs on his shoes, hopping on one foot and almost smacking into the wall. "How far away is it?"

"Not very," Harry says. "A few blocks. You'll live."

"Urgh," George grunts. "Making me walk before coffee. Don't you remember my feet were attacked not ten minutes ago?"

"You'll _live_ ," insists Harry. "I'd offer to piggyback you, but I think you should probably walk on your own two feet more often. I can't always be your chariot."

But George pouts, and they both know what George's pout does to Harry, so a few blocks later, they trundle into the busy greenmarket, George wrapped snug around Harry's shoulders like a very alive, wriggly backpack.

"Thanks, love." George kisses the side of Harry's neck, and beams. "You were a lovely pony."

"Well, I know how you like to ride," Harry demurs.

George squawks. "Cheeky, we're in _public_. Don't be dirty." He holds Harry's hand, though, linked fingers and everything.

Harry squeezes George's fingers and swings their linked hands like happy children as they make their way to the center of the fray, content just to be here and let George decide their path, nose twitching everything out.

"Berries," murmurs George. "There's got to be berries, right? And I suppose we'll need bananas, as you eat several islands worth in a day." He squeezes Harry's hand and sticks his tongue out.

"There won't be bananas," Harry says. "They don't grow locally. I'll have always to suffer colonialist bananas."

"Maybe we'll go on holiday to a banana plantation. Are there banana plantations? Banana islands?" George frowns. "Where do bananas come from?"

"Probably the same places as coffee," Harry says. "Not here, 's'all I know."

George's eyes light up at the mention of coffee, and his nose twitches a bit more before he starts tugging at Harry's hand, leading him off in the direction of a richly scented coffee stand, replete with a milk foamer and baked goods.

"Do you want a pastry?" George asks, once he's got his cup filled to the brim with steaming coffee, the rich scent wafting in his nostrils.

"Do I ever not want a pastry?" Harry asks. He takes his cup of tea and removes the lid to blow on it for a bit.

"Probably sometimes," reasons George. He picks out a chocolate brownie that's been lightly dusted with powdered sugar for himself, and something a bit lighter for Harry.

"Try me," Harry challenges, and accepts the carrot cake square.

"I will, next time you're hungover I'll shout _hey d'you want a ham and cheese croissant_? And I'll laugh while you throw up." George beams at him.

Harry scowls and takes a sip of his tea. It burns his tongue, and is not quite so suave as he'd hoped.

George giggles at him, which is more cute than anything else, and he kisses the corner of Harry's mouth. "Don't sulk. It doesn't become you."

Harry catches George's lips in a quick, frostingy kiss. "I know. Let's go find a punnet of strawberries that suits you."

"Punnet!" George giggles. "That's a great word. I'm going to use it all the time."

"I'm sure you are." Harry hums, and sidesteps so that they're in front of a stall. "What's here? I want to get something."

It's a stall of beeswax and raw honey; at the side, there's a crate crawling with fuzzy live insects, subdued with sweet-scented smoke. The girl manning the booth has freckles across her nose and hair big enough to rival even Harry- and George's put together, and the bangles on her wrist clink together as she waxes -- pun intended -- poetic about the benefits of unpasteurized honey.

"Nope!" George exclaims cheerfully, tugging Harry along. "No bugs. Nothing with bugs. I'm not having bugs."

"But honey tastes good," Harry protests lightly, letting George direct him.

"It comes from bee bottoms," George says. "Nothing doing."

"It's not like the bees _come_ with the honey." They're far from the stall now, though, so it's a token disagreement. Harry sighs and traipses along beside George. "What d'you want, then? Berries?"

"I want things that are not full of bees." George nods, as though that settles it.

"That's most things, I would've thought," muses Harry. "I mean. I'm not full of bees. And you're not full of bees. I'd think the only thing full of bees is beehives, for the most part."

"And there we have it," says George. "Although she was nice. It's a shame she's full of bees."

"A damn shame," agrees Harry, spotting a sign for strawberries and pulling George along to it. "How about these? You wanted strawberries, right?"

The boy selling strawberries is very short and very tan and does not look like a strawberry farmer at all.

He looks pleased enough to see them, though, which is something. "Hi," he greets, his hands splayed like he's showing off his product. "Interested in some strawberries? They're perfectly in season this month, you know."

"They look it." George looks dutifully impressed by the plump red fruits, green leafy stems as hats.

The strawberry boy narrows his blue eyes accusingly. "You don't know." He turns to give Harry a grin, though. "You do. I can tell."

"He's like Gingerbread," George mutters.

"Hush, you don't know a thing about whether fruit's in season or not, love," Harry says with a wave of his hand in George's direction. "It's your first time at a market. They do look good, though. You must be very good at growing strawberries." He smiles at strawberry boy. George glares a little.

The boy preens. "I am. I'll give you a pound off the punnet if you promise to eat them straight and not bake them in a pie."

Harry looks horrified at the very thought. "Who puts strawberries in a pie? I mean, if they were not so good or something and you wanted to cover that up, but these are beautiful and so fresh! I'd never. I'd _never_."

George snorts. Harry never eats cooked fruit, like a normal person, no, no, but he'll eat it out of the freezer like a weirdo.

He can't help but notice strawberry boy giving him a pointed look, like George could learn something from Harry. Please. Cooked fruit is delicious.

George takes a blithe sip of his coffee and leaves them to coo over the different shapes of English strawberries and haggle over prices.

Coffee's better than fruit, anyway. Coffee's better than most things. Except Harry, _maybe_ , if he stops being all coquettish with strawberry boy, who is _short_ , anyway.

By the time he's done, Harry has been swindled into buying a bushel of strawberries and inviting the boy over for dinner next week.

Smug strawberry farming hedgehog.

George is going to make a pie for dessert just to spite the both of them. Maybe all they'll have for dinner is pie. They can do shepherd's pie for dinner and then finish off with a nice strawberry pie. It would serve Harry right.

Of course, George would have to trick Harry into helping bake them, because Harry won't eat gravy that anyone else has made, because Harry is _ridiculous_.

Still. George has talents that could help that along. Talents that strawberry farmers probably don't have.

He's still sulky as they pass to the next stand, and George buys a blueberry muffin just to spite strawberries everywhere.

"He was nice, wasn't he?" Harry is chipper as can be. "Tremendous strawberries, too. We'll have to come back sometime to get more. Is that a good muffin?"

"Yeah," George says. "It's got baked fruit in."

"It's not really baked, is it? It just happens to be inside something that was." Harry hooks his arm into George's. "What else did you want to get? We've got strawberries. Did you want blueberries or are you being ornery?"

George scowls. "I'm being ornery. Stop being handsome at me so I can keep being ornery."

Harry makes his eyes very wide and very soft and pleading. "But I want to have a nice morning and I want you to love it here and then I want to go home and have a nice healthy lunch and then spend all afternoon in bed."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather do all those things with -- with people who like _strawberries_ and know all about _fruit_?" George's frown deepens and he takes a giant bite of his muffin. It's fucking delicious, because baked fruit is lovely.

Harry snuzzles the side of George's face. It feels weird, since George is chewing. "No. You. You're very nice and tall and not at all full of bees. I think he might be."

"Well then he's bringing bees into our house, isn't he?" George bats at Harry without much force. "Now see what you've done, with your face."

Harry kisses George's hair and steals a bite of his muffin. George is somewhat mollified.

"We should get raspberries. Or blackberries, I like them." George is still slightly prickly, but Harry's got such a good face and George really likes kissing it.

"Blackberries won't be here yet," Harry says. "But we can get raspberries. And I can eat them off your fingertips later."

"Stop being... you." George flicks Harry's arm. "It's difficult to be cross when you're so you about things."

Harry grins and shakes out his hair and the v-cut of his t-shirt opens to reveal the dark wings of his bird tattoos. George loves those bird tattoos. Damn it all.

"You're not fair," he informs Harry, taking his hand with sticky blueberry-fingers. "You aren't fair and I hope you know that. I'm making a strawberry pie and you're going to eat _all of it_."

Harry shrugs, always amiable. It does suit him here, the greenmarket, all sunshine and pleasant hippie people being pleasant and healthy. "Okay."

George sighs. He's glad he has Harry, because Harry is beautiful and funny and he's wonderful in bed and he makes George feel all butterflies-in-his-stomach on a daily basis, but damn if it isn't just all a bit startling, that Harry's the best person in the world. He should come with a warning, like, a bell 'round his neck or something.

George finishes his muffin and sighs, holding out the arm that Harry hasn't commandeered. "You want me to carry the berries?"

"Only if you want." Harry offers them with a smile. "You don't have to. They're not too heavy, and I'm pretty strong."

"I know, but you had to carry me all the way here."

"I carry you all the time." Harry squints at him. "I'll carry you wherever you want. I'll carry you right now."

"Sound like you're making up a pop song," George snorts. "About carrying people."

"Well, maybe you'll hear it on the radio someday," Harry teases. "Maybe I should've become a musician instead."

"But what would all the small children of our humble hamlet do without their best primary teacher?" George asks. "Maybe leave the popstarring to popstars."

"Yeah, alright," says Harry, affable. "I'd make a rubbish popstar, anyway."

"I don't know about that," George says, "But at any rate, you're far too healthy. You'd be in a tour bus begging for piles of bananas at drive-thru windows."

Harry snickers, bobbing his head in a nod. "I'd be one of those annoying diva popstars with riders like 'I need forty bananas backstage at every show.'"

"And beautiful strawberries delivered by beautiful strawberry-bearing men," George snips, then ducks when Harry bunts a strawberry at him in annoyance.

"He _was_ quite fit, wasn't he?" says Harry, and George would punch him only Harry's got one of the corners of his mouth quirked up, and his eyes are dancing as he closely watches George.

George harrumphs and finds his way over to another booth selling what seems to be fine cheeses and where the seller seems to be a massive old couple.

He'd like to see Harry flirt with them. No, actually, he _would_ like that, as watching Harry make grandmothers reconsider their marriages of forty years is always quite fun, and he's very good at it.

He's listening to a description of this year's cheddar when Harry finally catches up, stepping behind George and kissing the back of his head lightly.

"Charmer," George murmurs, letting the backs of their hands touch.

The gran seems more inclined to want to adopt them than marry Harry. That's always a nice outcome, too.

She gives them about a billion free samples and her husband man just smiles indulgently at her. That's the sort of relationship George would like to have when he's old.

He can tell Harry's thinking the same, because they've linked pinkies by the time they're leaving, and Harry is soppy anyway, prone to smiling indulgently at George.

"I liked them," he says. "Didn't you like them, Georgie? They seemed really nice, and like, stable, and happy, basically. They seemed really happy."

"Well, and why not?" George asks. "They get to make cheese all day. I rather like cheese; seems like it'd be a good way to live." He smiles at Harry and kisses his cheek. "Love me when I'm that wrinkly?"

"And wrinklier." Harry nuzzles his nose against George's. "Love me when I decide to take stock in a banana farm somewhere?"

"So long as my banana's your favorite," George says cheerfully. He kisses Harry, then takes the bushel of strawberries from him.

"Your everything's my favorite," says Harry frankly. "Even though you cook fruit."


End file.
